Just One of Those Things
by Cole's Angel
Summary: Phoebe thought Cole cheated on her, so she took revenge by marrying his cousin. But one night of passion left her with a secret that if Cole found out, could either bring them together or tear them apart forever...
1. Surprise Return

Author's Note: For this story, I changed where the Halliwells live. I know, I know, not very smart on my part, but it worked for the story. Also, Cole is human in this story. He has no demon form. The only reason I did this was because it worked for the story. So I guess you could consider this an AU fic. Also, as a warning, this WILL turn into an NC-17 fic soon, but I will make sure to change the rating on the front page. Luv Always, Cole's Angel (forever) 33333   
  
At the tail end of a steamy August, Phoebe Halliwell bundled her small daughter into her aging compact car and drove slowly through the streets of town.  
At eleven P.M. most of Southbury, Rhode Island, was already asleep, so Phoebe paid no mind to the fact that she'd thrown only a light sweater over her sky-blue Natori gown or that the child beside her on the front seat wore only a pink Barbie nightshirt. Ordinarily she would have noticed, would have cared, but Hope's slight frame still quivered from the nightmare, and Phoebe hoped that the motion of driving, as it always had when Hope was a toddler, would lull her back to sleep.  
She also hoped the old black Explorer would make it home again.  
"Close your eyes, baby," Phoebe said. "Try to rest."  
Hope sat up straighter.  
"Did you get the money?" she asked in the taut, whispery voice that Phoebe wouldn't have recognized even two months before. Just a year ago, no more than that, her little girl had been happy, outgoing, unafraid.  
"No, sweetie, I didn't."  
She glanced from the road into Hope's solemn, familiar blue eyes, then at the slender fingers knotted in her lap. When Phoebe covered them briefly with her own hand, the fragile bones felt like air and her stomach tightened.  
"We'll be all right," she said, irritated with herself that she'd lost control that afternoon and let Hope sense her panic.  
"What did the man at the bank say?"  
"Don't worry, sweetheart. Everything will be fine."  
Reassuring herself as much as Hope, she returned her attention to Main Street, a mile-long drag of antique shops, the local ice-cream parlor where she'd once perched on a curlicue iron stool, sipping cherry Cokes with the boy she would eventually marry, and two churches, the Methodist at one end, Episcopal at the other.  
"We'll be okay now," she murmured, the soft summer night a hush of sound between her car and others, parked on the street across from the Mainsail Bar in front of David Parker's interior design shop. David was Phoebe's only friend in San Francisco at the moment, and she'd been meaning to call him.  
The light at the corner of Main and Elm by the bank where Phoebe's small business loan had earlier been rejected turned red, and she stopped behind the white line. Years ago she had cruised this strip with Brian Riker, and later, after he left town to find fame, she had even cruised it -- much to her sisters' discomfort -- with his cousin.  
The memory of either man made Phoebe squirm. When the light flashed green, she nudged the accelerator, coaxing her thoughts and the Explorer through the intersection in the direction of the town limits. Rolling down West Main she passed the hardware store formerly owned by Brian's father, then the street where her own aunt and uncle had lived, and whom she had lived with for a year as she made her way to New York. The house had been simple, small and tidy, and, because of her grandmother's expectations of perfection, emotionally restrictive, very different -- she hoped -- from the home she'd recently made with Hope, worlds away from the life she'd known as Brian Riker's wife for the past six years.  
As she passed the red brick high school, Phoebe frowned. Ten years ago, just falling in love with Brian at seventeen, she'd been the envy of all of her classmates, all her friends -- except for Brian's cousin. She had to give him that much. Cole had warned her but Phoebe hadn't listened. Long before that Cole had fashioned himself into the town bad boy and she'd been too caught up in her first romance to believe him; caught up in the expectations of her own, in the very notion of being able to follow Brian to some new, exciting place. Or so she thought. She wanted to be anywhere but Southbury; she thought she would be by the time she was twenty-three and newly married.  
Of course, Brian hadn't been quite so well-known then as the charismatic winner of numerous Formula One Grand Pries, most recently in Hungary. Phoebe's hands tightened on the wheel. Her illusions had shattered soon enough in endless travel, which didn't prove glamorous at all, in her husband's endlessly shifting moods, and she was just now starting to pick up the pieces.  
It wasn't all his fault. During her marriage, she'd learned, for one thing, that she made a poor nomad. Phoebe had a matched set of Louis Vuitton luggage and a closet full of designer clothes and shoes, at least for summer, which was all she'd brought with her to Rhode Island, all she'd dared take in her haste; but neither she nor Hope had ever had a real home, the kind of loving home Phoebe envisioned when she accepted Brian Riker's proposal. For all of her five years Hope had been a virtual gypsy, trailing him and Phoebe from Southbury to Sao Paulo, from Sao Paulo to Silverstone, from Silverstone to Suzuka. Living in hotels, eating from room service or in restaurants, sleeping on planes. Being blinded by camera flashes.  
Phoebe wondered if her friends would envy her now if they knew the truth behind the glamorous façade. That's all it had been. By the time she'd reached the United States after leaving him, Brian had canceled her credit cards.  
"Mommy? Where are we going?"  
At the plaintive tone she smiled across at Hope, at her gossamer, dark brown hair fluttering in the hot breeze through the open windows. Phoebe whizzed past the town limits sign and, as if she'd planned this all along, kept going. "To your 'favorite place in the whole world,'" she said, a direct quote from Hope.  
"The playhouse?" she asked and Phoebe nodded.   
The smaller building behind The Breakers, the famed mansion in nearby Newport, had enthralled her daughter on their first outing after the move to Southbury -- after their escape from France -- and Hope pleaded every day to go again.  
She leaned forward in her seat until the car had wound its way through the quiet streets of Newport on to Bellevue Avenue and then Ochre Point Avenue. She suddenly clapped her hands. "There it is. I see it!"  
Phoebe slowed the car, stopping at the curb so that Hope could enjoy her favorite view of the miniature house, aglow in moonlight and deep with shadows. "We can't go inside," she said gently when Hope begged her to turn into the parking area. "It's closed, sweetie. Maybe we can go tomorrow."  
"Tomorrow I have school."  
From the dejected slump of her shoulders, Phoebe guessed that in Hope's mind kindergarten orientation rivaled a prison sentence, but Phoebe only said, "As soon as we can, then. I promise," before driving on.  
She didn't think about where she was headed, hadn't planned to go there either. The Explorer seemed to run on automatic pilot, as Phoebe did these days, turning off Ochre Point Avenue, slipping past the other silent houses along Bellevue, and then on to narrow, twisting Ocean Drive, but when she came at last to Brenton Point State Park at the town's north side, Phoebe wasn't really surprised to find herself there.  
To her relief Hope had finally fallen asleep, silky hair sweeping the seat back, one small hand tucked beneath a cheek whose pink-and-cream complexion reminded Phoebe of the delicate porcelain doll, her grandmother's, that she'd broken as a child.  
The parking lot was empty, dark, soundless, and Phoebe stopped the car in the sea of gravel, facing out across the darkened ocean. The stillness seemed total until she heard a few gulls scavenging from a nearby trash can, heard their shrill cries as they took off in a flapping chorus of wing beats. She rested her arms on the steering wheel and dropped her head on them, listening for more small sounds; hearing, with her eyes closed, the slick black water lapping, teasing, at the shore.  
Her leg had cramped and she briefly thought of getting out, walking the strip of beach across the road and maybe finding the peace she craved, but she didn't leave the car or her sleeping child. Brian called her overprotective, but it wasn't Brian Riker she though of now. It was Cole.  
The thought held her in place: bittersweet, disturbing. She and Cole had been friends, nothing less or more, until they'd come here in another quiet hour near midnight. She'd never stopped regretting the mistake and, as Brian's wife, she'd tried not to remember it -- or Cole.  
Now, six years later, and to her own surprise, she wondered. Had his hair stayed thick and dark, always in need of cutting? Did he still love rocky road ice cream and drink orange juice straight from the container? Did he still like salsa music? Certain songs by the Beatles? And everything from Fleetwood Mac? Did his blue eyes, the family blue eyes, still take on that look of total concentration when he read a road map…or made love?  
Straightening, she brushed a hand over the warm, satiny length of Hope's hair. It had darkened more each year and would, eventually, she supposed, become like Phoebe's own honey brown. So she hoped. She turned away, gazing out to sea, inhaling the air heavy with the scents of seaweed and salt water. If she'd known then, she would have prayed that her child would inherit her brown eyes, too; that there would be no reminders. Reminders that had finally driven her from Brian.  
Phoebe blinked. Nothing matter to her more, nothing, than Hope. But what had she done to this precious child? She'd taken her away from the only father, the only security, unorthodox though it might be, that Hope knew. She'd brought her back to Southbury, to Phoebe's own well-remembered streets and sights, still strange to her little girl. But to what else? she wondered. A life in limbo, a life soon enough without even the basic necessities? Phoebe remembered the loan officer's stern face and her own empty wallet. Had she made another brutal, if unintentional, mistake?  
Her sisters certainly thought so and maybe they were right. Maybe she didn't really need this simpler life, which she'd lost in the glare of lights and publicity and shining silver trophies held aloft by a grinning, suntanned Brian Riker.  
In Phoebe's mind the grin changed, as quickly as one of his moods, and she thought, no. No matter what her sisters believed, she belonged in Southbury, at least until she learned to take care of herself and her child, and Hope learned to smile again.  
Yet when Brian's smile had shifted, turning into someone else's smile, she had all but forgotten him. In that single instant she'd wanted to bury her cheek against another sun-browned throat, to feel strong arms around her, to have someone tell her, as she had told Hope, that everything would work out, that so far she had made the right choices this time. For one heart stopping moment, she had wanted Cole Turner.  
Beside her Hope stirred then drifted back into peaceful sleep, and Phoebe twisted the ignition key. "We'll be home in a few minutes," she whispered, glad that for now Hope's eyes were closed, that she couldn't see their troubled blue depths.  
Her tires crunched over the rough gravel back onto the road, and Phoebe averted her gaze from the vast sweep of dark water that edged the park. She had missed this place, if not the reminder of her own shame. Maybe she needed that as well. But as she drove even more slowly back toward Southbury at the witching hour, she couldn't help wondering: Did Cole still love the ocean too, and sunrises at Narragansett Bay?  
  
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Cole Turner drove toward Southbury, his foot heavy on the gas, his hands tight on the steering wheel, his thoughts in chaos. Though it had recently occurred to him that he had nowhere better to go, as always, he had mixed feelings about his uncle's house.  
Coming back made him remember himself at sixteen -- abruptly lost and grief-stricken without his family, dependent upon Will Riker's reluctant generosity. His uncle had taken Cole in after his mother and sister died, the year after his father passed away, but he had no happier memories of that time. Will hadn't wanted him and neither had Brian.  
Cole fixed his gaze on the dark road ahead. He'd been outgoing and popular in Sunnyvale, but in San Francisco he quickly found himself a loner. Brian, a year older that Cole and class president that year, squelched all but the most persistent attempts at friendship. Soon only the girls went near Cole and then, he supposed, because they considered him -- at first because of Brian's stories -- slightly dangerous, and therefore executing.  
In defiance, in raw grief, he'd set about earning his new reputation, more and more because his uncle seemed to expect trouble of him, just as he expected honor roll grades of Brain. Cole had his first speeding ticket the day he got his license. In the spring of his junior year he was falsely accused of cheating on his chemistry final. Then four months after graduation the next year there'd been that nasty business with Lily Townsend and her kid he'd almost cut and run.  
Instead, he'd hung on through four years of college, which his uncle insisted upon Cole considered penance…until he met Phoebe.  
He flexed his fingers on the wheel, half-tempted to turn around and head for New Haven. But the interstate unrolled like a black ribbon before him, with little traffic, and instead he pushed his foot to the floor. It had been a long time ago. Will was gone and Brian, too. He'd have the house to himself, which was exactly what he wanted.  
Except for the memories.  
Guilt sped through his system like the all-too-frequent panic that in the last weeks had threatened to cripple him. The trouble was, going back made him think of Phoebe, too. If he hadn't stopped being just Phoebe's pal…if they hadn't gone to Brenton Point…  
Hell, she was long past a few hours in a dark car with a mixed-up guy and so was he. Keeping one eye out for any state police speed traps, Cole pushed the car harder, faster. Pushed himself toward the only haven he might find. Phoebe was gone, too. Though maybe she was one reason -- that, and the distance it gave him -- why he'd finally pulled his life together and become a psychologist. Except he wasn't giving any advice these days. And his life seemed to be falling apart again.  
  
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In the hour after midnight, alone in her high-ceilinged kitchen, Phoebe was humming an off-key rendition of the song about a handsome devil with blue eyes and blue jeans when a crash sounded from the porch. With a start she jerked the handle on the saucepan of milk she'd been heating and warm liquid sloshed over the rim. Phoebe groaned.  
What had Hope's cat knocked over this time in pursuit of some innocent prey?  
"Darcy, please," she said. "Spare the little creature."  
It had been that kind of day, Phoebe admitted, like many other days since she'd taken her courage by the throat and left her husband fuming in the Magny-Cours on the eve of the French Grand Prix. After the soothing drive, her daughter lay fast asleep upstairs, but Phoebe still felt wired. He set the pot aside on the kitchen's big restaurant-style range and swept hair from her eyes with one sticky, milk-wet hand. The other clutching a cooking spoon, she headed for the front door.  
On her way she snatched her favorite cast-iron skillet from the circular rack of copper pans above the kitchen's center island. The cat never caught anything, but Phoebe always feared there'd be a first time and rushed to rescue some poor field mouse. She'd need the pot and spoon to scare Darcy away. As if her own appearance, like a wraith in filmy gown and flowing hair, wouldn't be enough to make the fluffy Persian's coat stand on end.  
Halfway through the dining room Phoebe heard scuffling, then a nerve-scraping grate of metal on metal that made her pulse kick up. She missed a step. Maybe it wasn't Darcy.  
She peered into the darkness, her thoughts scrambling. It couldn't be a late-arriving guest because she hadn't taken any reservations for the inn. Today's page in the leather-bound book on the desk remained as white as her own face must look at the moment. A prowler, then? Someone who knew she lived alone in the old Victorian house with only a five-year-old child and a prowling feline for protection?  
It must be the cat.  
On the threshold of her darkened living room, she froze. Outside, glaring light illuminated the wide front veranda that had been as black as the bottom of the old well in the yard moments before and slanted more weakly through the long windows flanking the front door.  
As her widening gaze fixed on it, the door inched open on the creaking hinges she'd been meaning to oil. Her heart skipped several beats. Phoebe watched as a tall, broad-shouldered figure, a dark, shadowy threat in the blackness, crept into the house, and , softly cursing, turned to fiddle with the cranky lock.  
Her knees went weak -- not with relief -- and Phoebe bit back a curse. He didn't need to turn around and she didn't need to see him in the light. Brian had obviously given up on his fruitless, daily transatlantic phone calls begging her to come back. He'd given up on his silky threats. And bold as the brass on the front door knocker, he'd chased her to California. Phoebe strangled the iron skillet. Damned if she'd let him back into Hope's life until -- unless -- Phoebe decided she wanted him there.  
Heart pounding, she raised the skillet and, like the world's worst polo player swinging a mallet, brought it down over his head.  
"Oww! What the --"  
The heavy cast iron merely glanced off his shoulder but the shock of connection with solid flesh and bone sang up Phoebe's more slender arm. She never had a chance to move. In the same instant he knocked her flat to the gleaming oak floor she'd refinished herself, his weight following her down. Arms pinned between them, she lay helpless.  
"Bastard," was all she could manage. On her back in the dining room archway, gasping for breath, she stared up into his blank, and then astonished expression.  
"Phoebe?"  
Too late, she recognized both the face and the voice. Deeper than Brian's, with a husky quality that had always reminded her of wood smoke, it seemed to bring all the mistakes of her life crashing down upon her.  
Even in the dim, all but nonexistent light, she could see the blaze of blue eyes fringed by dark lashes, see his dark hair, still too long and not recently combed. "Dear God," she whispered as if she'd conjured him up at Brenton Point. "Cole."  
"Phoebe?" he said again. His gaze searched her face as if taking in all her changes and she felt her cheeks warm.  
"Yes, it's me," she finally murmured, "what's left anyway," wishing she had kept her sweater on, wishing for something even more substantial between them, like the width of an ocean.  
"Phoebe Halliwell Riker." He was shaking his head.  
"Get up. I can't breathe." She felt him shift fractionally onto his elbows, but other than that, he didn't move. His tone was dark, as she remembered that too, but at the same time casual.  
"Sorry. I blinded myself outside, facing the car headlights toward the porch so I could see the door. At night this place always was as dark as hell itself."  
Phoebe knew his memories of Southbury weren't happy ones. "I was in the kitchen. You can't see the lights from out front."  
"I thought you were a burglar."  
Her jaw dropped. "I thought you were."  
She could hear the smile in his voice a split second before he grinned. "Quite an entrance, huh?"  
Quite a grin. She knew that, too.  
Phoebe looked away from his intent gaze, suddenly fighting herself not to give in and let the floorboards bruise her spine, to let Cole settle against her like a warm, familiar blanket. She needed a friend, but Brenton Point seemed all too recent. They'd also been lovers. Once. She had to remind herself that, once past the kisses and caresses meant to comfort, she hadn't liked it.  
"Let me go. I've had a bad enough day without you walking -- or falling -- into it."  
Cole eased back, and Phoebe glanced over his shoulder at the front door. Had she forgotten to lock it?  
He hadn't knocked; wouldn't have seen the sign in the yard either. During the last week's thunderstorm, it had blown down, split in two, and still stood propped against the wrought-iron lamppost whose bulb had blown out -- not that she couldn't change a light bulb or swing a hammer. If she were honest, she didn't seem to have the heart to set the sign right again, to have people ringing her bell. If Hope woke…  
Phoebe's pulse thumped and she cast a glance at the ceiling. If Hope woke now and came downstairs…  
"Get up." She pushed against Cole's shoulders.  
"You're still pissed at me," he said, in Phoebe's opinion the understatement of the century," about the last time I saw you."  
"I'd hoped it was the last time."  
She instantly regretted the words.  
"Ah, Phoebe." Intensity shimmered in his eyes, then he dipped his head to hers, as if to answer her challenge, but his light kiss only grazed her temple before Cole rose and brushed off his jeans.  
Phoebe scrambled to her feet, then was sorry she had. Moonlight filtered through the sheer curtains at the front windows, and his gaze slid over her form unbound hair to bare toes, making her blush like the rambler roses in the unkempt garden. She had to fight the urge to cover herself.  
She didn't really think about the nightgown. But what else did Cole see? An ill-used, trying-to-survive-on-her-own-this-time woman, she supposed, not as young now, nearing thirty. Not as pretty, she felt sure, though she'd never considered herself a beauty, and much too thin. Phoebe didn't like the image, which looked back at her from her mirror every morning.  
When he reached for the light switch, she said sharply, "Leave it off," and his hand dropped to his side.  
They stood inches apart, Cole still as agile and lean as Brian was, but harder-muscled, his navy blue polo shirt seeming to broaden his shoulders, to define his chest and flat stomach. Phoebe briefly closed her eyes. The standard blue jeans hid nothing of his slim hips and long legs.  
She'd thought herself immune to him, or any man just now. Brian was still too fresh in her mind and sex had never seemed that important to Phoebe. Affection, yes. Friendship…  
Cole came closer, so close that she began to shake. He even smelled the same, of soap and clean night air and the sea. Of stars too, for all she knew. Which only reminded Phoebe of her own shame. She turned away, heading for the stairs.  
"You still take things too seriously," he said.  
"You never took them seriously enough."  
He caught her elbow. "Where are you going?"  
"I need a robe."  
"Phoebe, talk to me." Guiding her to the off-white sofa, he whipped a rosy afghan from its back, settling it around her shoulders. Silence settled too, except for the tick of the grandfather clock from the hall. Phoebe had been afraid to protest; afraid any noise might waken Hope.  
"What are you doing here?" she said softly.  
He perched on the sofa's end, his arm brushing her shoulder. "Just passing through?" He tried to sound nonchalant.  
People pass through New York or London. Nobody 'passes through' Southbury, Rhode Island." It was partly why she'd come here. "It takes a special trip over the bridge, a detour off I-95 to Boston."  
"I know. I just came that way."  
"In case you didn't notice or forgot, we're on an island here."  
"I haven't forgotten anything."  
"Neither have I."  
"Phoebe." She heard exasperation in his husky tone.  
"No," she said. "I don't want to wrestle with you on my dining room floor or have a cozy midnight chat. I just want to know why you've broken into the house in the middle of the night."  
"Right past the attack cat on your doorstep, you mean?"  
Phoebe could have laughed at his obvious attempt to lighten things; at such an image of Hope's cowardly tortoiseshell Persian. Instead, she tore her gaze away, looking just past his ear at the ivory-painted wall and one of the oil paintings she'd lovingly retrieved from the attic. A winter scene, New England, all snow and spidery, bare tree limbs pointing skeletal fingers at the sky. Cole had always been charming but unpredictable. Tempestuous, like Brian. Her gaze shifted to the ceiling.  
She had to think of Hope. Had to make him leave.  
"Darcy would have opened the door for you herself, but she was probably looking for some unsuspecting meadow vole to make a midnight snack."  
"I always knew I was a dog lover."  
Phoebe knew he didn't love anything, unless it was the open road. "Then you won't mind driving on."  
"This might surprise you but I haven't anywhere else to go."  
Phoebe's lips pursed. "Nothing about you could surprise me."  
"You look just like your sister when you do that."  
She looked away but he had already seen.  
"You've changed," he said, "inside. I was afraid you would. That he'd change you." He glanced around, as if Brian might be hiding behind the drapes or lurking in the dining room archway, watching them. "Where is he, by the way?"  
"In Europe. Belgium." At least he had been that morning when she answered the phone. She'd heard the sound of race car engines revving up in the background at Malamedy, but the sound, like his anger when she again refused to return to him, hadn't made her in the least homesick. Phoebe took a breath. "I've left him."  
She could see Cole struggle not to show surprise, but he didn't quite hide the flash of sympathy. "Your sisters don't approve." It wasn't a question.  
"No, and I didn't have many options other than coming here, except going to them, which I'd like to avoid if I can."  
"They're in Florida, right?"  
Phoebe nodded, wanting to look away from him but unable to do so. Though Cole was usually reluctant to talk about himself, he'd always been a good listener, which she supposed had once formed the basis for their friendship. In spite of herself, she could almost be comforted by it now. "I guess you heard, Dad retired a couple years ago. He sold the house and moved to the Tampa-St. Pete area. When Brian raced-occasionally-at Sebring, we stayed with him. As you might expect, my sisters are still singing his praises."  
"I'm not happy to be right." He bent to look into her eyes, as if assessing damage.  
"Thank you for not saying 'I told you so.' He's finally agreed to a six months' trial separation, which I'll use to make up my mind about a divorce."  
"In the meantime your sisters hope he'll win you back," Cole guessed. "With the emphasis on win. Damn." He lifted his hand, then let it fall again as if he didn't dare touch her. "he went into the right game, didn't he? He's the most competitive son of a bitch I ever met in my life. He never learned when to quit." He paused. "Assuming you want him to. Phoebe, I don't know what the situation is here, but don't let yourself become another trophy."  
At his quiet tone she could almost think of him as a friend again in whom she could confide without being censured, or lectured, as her sisters might have, on expectations. It was a dangerous feeling but…"You know how he is, was, I mean."  
"Selfish as a two year old with a new toy truck." He folded his arms. "Don't underestimate him."  
"I'm not likely to," she said. "That's why I'm here."  
She didn't know how long she'd be staying. The business loan officer at the bank reminded her that she had no collateral, no equity; that Brian owned his father's house. The reminder that he had merely lent it to her still stung. Another instance of his control.  
"I wanted to come home--or as near to home as I can get since Prue and Piper sold the house. I just wanted to…" Find a safe harbor for Hope, she had almost said. "Wanted to be on my own for a while."  
Cole was watching her even more closely now, not saying anything. His folded arms, his silence, his very watchfulness unnerved her; years ago, he had been quick and impulsive and not always in control of his emotions. Though he laughed easily, he also had a temper that rivaled Brian's--and he was clearly the most passionate man, in all things, whom Phoebe had ever known. Still, that Cole she knew and had always been able to deal with until Brenton Point; this even newer version made her twitch. Her own loneliness made her talk too much.  
"I'm all right," she assured him. "except for the normal, everyday glitches, I'm fine. I have a new business that keeps me hopping, a broken-down car that won't run at all except on a whim, and a little…" She trailed off, careful to focus her gaze on the floor. Hope's bedroom was right overhead and she didn't want to mention her daughter. Cole had always been curious, like Darcy.  
"Little what?"  
"Uh, cat." She gestured toward the porch.  
"I've met the cat. What's wrong with your car?"  
"Old age. Terminal rot. Bad valves. My mechanic told me this afternoon that open-heart surgery is required." He'd told her right after she was denied the loan. "My bank account doesn't agree."  
"And what business?"  
Phoebe waved at the front parlor, which doubled as her reception room and cocktail lounge for guests. "I'm running an inn, or rather, a bed-and-breakfast. Trying to. We--I--call it Heritage House because it has a lot of history." The house, which Phoebe loved, had been built nearly a hundred years ago.  
"I know. I used to live here."  
"Past tense," she said firmly. His had been the second room on the right at the top of the stairs. It was Hope's now.  
"A bed-and-breakfast, huh?"  
She didn't answer his growing smile. He wasn't the only one to think her crazy. While she watched, he assessed the room with a critical gaze that lingered on the plant-filled windows, the softly faded Chinese carpet. But no matter what he might say in judgment, she felt a surge of pride. The public part of the old house was shaping up well, the main florr at least, and she had mostly her own labor to thank. Without the bank loan to redecorate the guest bedrooms, she's probably have more.  
"Something wrong?" she finally asked.  
Cole shook his head. "After Uncle Will's wife died, he let things run down and the day I moved in here, my first thought was how dark and plain the house seemed. I like what you've done to the place."  
His words didn't soothe Phoebe. The smile still played at the corners of his mouth and, knowing Cole, she thought she knew the reason.  
"You can't stay here."  
Dread settled over her like the soft wool afghan around her shoulders. Phoebe shrugged it off and stood, planting both hands on her hips, ready for a fight if necessary.  
Cole stood too. "I don't think you understand. I didn't break in here tonight." He fished in his pocket and held up a familiar metal object. Just like Phoebe's. "I used my key." Then he grinned in the sunny way yhay had always been his alone. "This may be your B and B," Cole said, "but--"  
"It's Brian's house."  
"Half of it, yes. The other half is mine."  
Phoebe groped for the arm of her favorite Bargello-upholstered chair, and sat again to steady herself. "Yours?"  
"By the terms of my uncle's will, Brian and I share equally in his father's estate. The amount itself, after bills and taxes, was pretty lean because, as you know, he'd been ill for some time before his death."  
Will Riker had suffered not only a painful battle with emphysema but a costly one. Phoebe liked to remember him in healthier, happier days, a florid, somewhat autocratic figure who to his eternal despair had never learned how to cope with his young nephew and ward. But except for his sternness with Cole, which, she had admitted, Cole had sometimes deserved, she had liked Will Riker, who returned her affection. In his last years, he'd doted on Hope and had been a bright spot in Phoebe's unhappy marriage to his son.  
"The bulk of his estate," Cole went on, "was this place. I'm not planning to toss you out of the house, or to take away your bread and butter." He smiled. "Your bed-and-breakfast."  
"One of us has to go."  
"Maybe." Cole locked his hands behind his back, stretched and yawned. "Maybe not."  
Phoebe heard his spine pop and the yawn fostered one of her own. "what are we going to do?"  
"Go to bed." He caught himself, and grinned. "Separately, of course. Tomorrow, if you like, we can renegotiate."  
He was leaning against the sofa back, ankles crossed and arms folded. Phoebe assumed the innuendo had been halfhearted, deliberately ambiguous, but a peaceful look was drifting across his features and in a few minutes, if she didn't rouse him, she thought he would be asleep.  
The ability to find sleep that easily eluded Phoebe, whose mind often whirred far into the night, but it worked for her now. She was tired, too. Besides, Cole had always been a late sleeper, "lazy," Will Riker had said. With luck, Hope would be off to kindergarten orientation before he woke up. And by the time she came home, Cole Turner would be halfway to wherever he might be bound for next.  
Phoebe doubted he'd need too much coaxing.  



	2. Chance Meeting

He'd say good-bye before he left. A squint at his Rolex told Cole he had three more hours until dawn, to seesaw back and forth as he'd been doing for the past two hours about leaving or staying, to remember Phoebe as she'd been tonight, so wary, not only because of Brian, he suspected, and disapproving.  
  
Phoebe, he thought, urging him up the stairs and along the hall, bustling to find fresh linens for his bed, refusing his help to make it. "Afraid I'll try to tumble you in the sheets?" he'd finally asked, irritated by her brisk efficiency while he stood back, watching and feeling like another chair in the corner. She'd even given him a different room from the one he'd always had, the one he'd shared with Brian.  
  
She rechecked the bathroom towels. "Not afraid in the least." After fluffing the bed's light quilt once more, she plumped both pillows. "The possibility's more than remote."  
  
The words had pricked his pride. She'd changed all right, not only on the outside, and not for the better. More comfortable with that, he focused on externals.  
  
In the dim light of the living room earlier he'd barely made out her form or realized that the willowy girl he remembered had turned into a fashion-model thin woman who still, somehow, managed to have the right curve of hips and breasts, before he noted the new distance in her gaze. Still fighting his own response to seeing her again, he almost missed it. The mere sight of Phoebe had always knocked him out. He'd noticed the faint lines around her eyes, the shadows. Brian had put the dark circles there too, he was willing to bet; but it was Cole she disliked tonight.  
  
One of us has to go  
  
He needed sleep first but knew he wouldn't get any. His chest began to tighten and he pressed a hand to it, recalling the first time he'd had the feeling a few weeks ago and thought he was dying, like his father, of a heart attack.  
  
Why feel unwelcome here? He'd never belonged in this house.  
  
Cole stroked his chest, trying to ease the pressure. That first night in the room across the hall, he'd known he was in trouble. Brian had kept him awake for hours, goading him.  
  
"Cole," he said, "asshole. It's no coincidence that it rhymes. That's all you'll ever be around here." Brian's teeth flashed white in the dark. "Asshole," he chanted, and it was then that Cole flew across the room at him for the first time, fists flying.  
  
His uncle had broken up the fight but not before Brian's lip was split and bleeding and he'd vowed revenge, which he took over the next ten years.  
  
He'd been twenty when Brian at twenty-one started dating Phoebe, who was three years younger than Cole.  
  
He'd taken immediately to her quiet good manners, the brief glimpses he caught of whimsy in her prim character, the ready acceptance she gave him. He liked Phoebe's strong sense of family, something Cole had feared he'd never find again and secretly knew -- still -- that he didn't deserve.  
  
He shifted on the bed, trying to find a cool spot. The upstairs room had stayed hot and close, and he stacked his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Now even the whimsy was missing, and Phoebe didn't seem to like him at all. He turned over on the perspiration-wet sheets.  
  
Though he'd kept his distance for years and Phoebe probably knew little about him since Brenton Point, maybe there were no marks for finishing his master's in psychology, even for getting the doctoral degree that would be his as soon as he completed his overdue dissertation.  
  
In the car he'd piled his notes, his hard copy of the first draft, his references, his computer. He'd never cared for Will Reid's house, but he needed a few quiet months on his own. Yet his primary reason for coming back to Southbury didn't seem good enough now. Like his success.  
  
How ironic, he thought, that he and Phoebe and Brian all lived in the public glare. Formula One, mainly an international sport, rarely made headlines in the U.S., though; and Cole's daily newspaper advice column, increasingly well known, didn't yet appear overseas. He and Brian remained as distant as they'd been from Cole's first night in his uncle's house. Which seemed to suit Phoebe fine, too.  
  
Hell, he didn't need her approval either.  
  
But Cole's heart beat hard and fast. Dammit. The tightness, the sweating…How many times in the past weeks?  
  
Predictably, his mouth went dry. Switching on the bedside lamp, he ran through his own litany of favorite anxiety defusers. He counted the repeats in the Della Robbia wallpaper pattern. Listened for the next bark of a neighborhood dog and tried to guess its breed. Made mental list of the revisions he expected on his new book, touted to be "the best yet," according to his editor, "a landmark in self-help literature." Nothing worked. He was losing it, fast, and he damn well knew why.  
  
On a wave of nausea Cole shot off the bed, swallowing. His heart thumped like a tom-tom. In deference to Phoebe and the fact that the bathroom was across the hall, he'd worn a t-shirt and briefs to bed but now he stripped to his skin and knelt in front of the open window. Gasping, dizzy, in the throes of a full-blown panic attack, he leaned out into the still warm night.  
  
After a few moments, from across the street, the dog barked again. A golden retriever, he decided, forcing himself to recall everything he knew about the breed before ducking his head back inside, able to breathe again. Why in hell would anyone trust his advice? Or want him to host a television show a la Dr. Ruth?-- a possibility the cable network had recently been pushing and Cole had been resisting.  
  
Because of him and his glib, smooth-talking, pop-culture advice, a twenty-year-old kid lay in a hospital bed, hooked up to tubes and monitors, in a coma that with each passing day threatened to prove irreversible.  
  
His steps jerky, he crossed to the bed. He hadn't come back to Southbury just to finish his dissertation. A piece of paper wouldn't restore his confidence in himself as a therapist, or end his more general dissatisfaction with his life, the growing feeling that he'd missed something somewhere along the way. It wouldn't stop the panic.  
  
Cole dropped into bed and, escaping from reality like a hardcore catatonic, yanked the sheet over his head.  
******************************************************************************************  
Across the hall, in the room next to Hope's, Phoebe lay sleepless, her ears alert to every sound from Cole's room.  
  
After leaving him there, she'd wondered what her sisters would say. She was still a married woman, the mother of a young child -- and she'd allowed a man, a virtual stranger, to spend the night in her house. Except, it wasn't really hers.  
  
And Cole was hardly a stranger.  
  
Already aware of the dog barking across the street, she listened to the old house settle, the top stair creaking, the snap and ping of wood and plaster contracting -- she assumed -- as the night slowly cooled, the whirr of the refrigerator motor.  
  
She supposed she couldn't blame herself for feeling an instant awareness, as a normal woman might, when he stretched his body over hers on the hard wooden floor. She hadn't let the moment lead anywhere, though, assuming he'd wanted it to.  
  
Like his earlier kiss, the light breeze shivered along Phoebe's skin. Cole's hands had felt warm, as warm as the blue of his eyes made her feel one other night.  
  
"It's okay, Phoebe," he'd whispered then, the car windows open to the ocean's soft shush of surf against the nearby sand. And when comfort had become kisses at her temple, along her cheek, to the tender spot beneath her ear, she hadn't resisted.  
  
She would never know how things had gotten out of hand so fast. How with every kiss she'd inched lower on the seat until she was lying down, watching the stars, and Cole lay over her as he had tonight, his face with that dark intent she would never forget -- even though she'd tried. His fingers had slipped under her cotton sweater to her breasts, his body hard against hers. Taking then, piercing, burning…  
  
Phoebe sprang upright in bed, pressing her lips together to stop the tingling memory. She wasn't like that, like Lily Townsend.  
  
She frowned, determined to be honest with herself. Tonight she'd liked talking to Cole well enough, which seemed like old times. He knew Brian better than anyone -- the real Brian Reid not the public image -- could sense her pain and confusion without words, without condemnation.  
  
But he'd be gone soon. Before he hurt her again.  
  
Before he saw Hope for the first time.  
******************************************************************************************  
At dawn, sprawled on his back in the center of the hard mattress, Cole jolted awake at a sudden pain. Phoebe, he imagined, dragging him from bed and tossing him into the street. Resisting consciousness, he ground his head deeper into the pillows, cracking one eye. He felt muzzy from too little sleep, judging by the faint, pearly gray light through the windows, and wasn't in any hurry to wake up. A blessedly cool morning breeze touched his face. Then razor-edged talons pierced his chest again.  
  
Phoebe, he remembered, bit her nails.  
  
His eyes shot open. The large tortoiseshell Persian cat he'd glimpsed the night before blinked back at him, kneading his skin above the sheet at his waist, purring.  
  
"Darcy!"  
  
A small voice made Cole glance sharply to his left and the claws dug deeper. He clamped both hands around the cat. Beside the bed stood the child who had spoken, and he nearly stopped breathing, nearly stopped feeling the pain as Darcy's flailing claws raked his skin. He saw a little girl with a perfect oval face, a straight, familiar nose, a long fall of sleek hair almost the color of Phoebe's -- and a pair of the bluest, most somber eyes he had ever seen. No light in them. Like Brian's.  
  
"Mommy, please help!" She reached for the cat, her grip falling short. "A bare-naked man is hurting Darcy."  
  
"Leave her alone."  
  
Though barely above a whisper, Phoebe's voice vibrated with anger. She had skidded around the door frame into his room, brown eyes tarnished as a penny, as if he were some pervert. She sure hadn't meant the cat.  
  
"I didn't touch her," Cole said.  
  
"Hope, take Darcy downstairs." Phoebe plucked the cat from his chest, somehow managing not to make contact with his bare skin, and thrust her into the child's arms. "You shouldn't have let her out of the kitchen before I got up. You should have come to get me. Feed her, please, then put her outside."  
  
Cole raised up on an elbow. "Don't you think you should introduce us first?"  
  
"No."  
  
In the doorway, Hope clutched the cat to her narrow chest like a riot shield, her gaze fixed on Cole. "Can I pour the orange juice?"  
  
"Yes, please."  
  
"For that man, too?"  
  
"He won't be staying for breakfast. Now do as I said before Darcy gets sick."  
  
"Uh-oh."  
  
Cole tried to hang on to his own anger, as Phoebe's child had held on to the cat, waiting until he heard her light footsteps on the stairs. He tugged the sheet higher. "I damn well am having breakfast. What's going on here?"  
  
"Keep your voice down."  
  
"Answer me, Phoebe."  
  
"My daughter is getting ready for school. She starts kindergarten next week." Phoebe headed for the stairs. "And you are getting ready to leave."  
  
"Not before you explain a few things." Cole started to leap from bed, then thought better of it. Hope had been right; he was naked. "She came in on me -- she and the cat." Gingerly, he touched the scratches on his chest. They were oozing blood. "I sure didn't invite either of them but I didn't hurt them. What the hell do you think I am, some weirdo?"  
  
Phoebe gave him an arch look over her shoulder. "You scare her. Hope doesn't like men right now."  
  
"She seems to like them a whole lot better than you do."  
  
"Not if you'd touched her, she wouldn't." She turned to face him. "Or touched me."  
  
Against his better judgement his professional instincts slipped into gear. "Why doesn't she like men?"  
  
"She…had a bad experience." Phoebe's gaze shifted and Cole felt the bottom of his stomach drop out. He didn't need this. Dammit, it was the last thing he needed.  
  
"What do you mean 'bad experience'? You mean someone molested her?"  
  
Phoebe shuddered visibly. "No. Cole, I told you last night that I didn't want you to stay. I don't want to 'renegotiate' this morning. Hope and I have enough problems."  
  
"Without adding me?"  
  
The fact that her rejection stung, and how much, surprised him. So did his own reaction. He'd meant to leave at dawn and not look back. He watched Phoebe prowl the room, seemingly unaware of her gauzy green nightgown, flowing around her bare legs like sea foam.  
  
So this was the other source of her wariness. Hope. He'd seen the piece in Us magazine years ago soon after Brian won his first Italian Grand Prix. Vigorous and smoothly handsome, he made a perfect media subject, and Phoebe, young and pretty, looked the adoring wife, the blissfully happy new mother. The baby in her arms had been mostly hidden from the camera by a blanket but of course, through Will, he knew they'd had a daughter.  
  
"How old is she now?" he asked.  
  
"Five." Phoebe paused, her eyes still dark and defiant as if daring him to say, even to think , the wrong thing. "She was born in April. April eleventh."  
  
He'd been with her at Brenton Point in June. He counted mentally on his fingers and didn't like himself for accepting Phoebe's challenge. Ten months. His dissappointment surprised him even more. "She's a beautiful child," he said, "but Phoebe, something's really wrong here."  
  
Her face turned ashen. "Oh, why did you have to come back?" She moaned the words and Cole was out of bed before he remembered why he should stay there.  
  
"Now I'm glad I did."  
  
"What in God's name do you know about children?"  
  
"Not very much," he said, "firsthand," and then, "Enough."  
  
In fact, he'd done his master's thesis on the battered child but wasn't about to tell Phoebe that. Whatever she knew about his professional life, she didn't know everything, didn't know the worst part. But she must have seen in his eyes the flash of self-doubt that he lived with now as if he were a Siamese twin.  
  
"I'm sorry, Cole. I didn't mean to sound sharp or bitter."  
  
"Yeah," he said. "All right, I forgive you. Your sisters forgive you."  
  
In the awkward silence that followed, Phoebe glanced down, making them both aware of his nakedness. Cole felt his face heat but he'd be damned if he'd dive back under the covers.  
  
Phoebe's pale cheeks bloomed with color. "You might like to shower and shave before you dress." She placed too much emphasis on the last word. She'd worn her hair pulled back from her face to sleep and even the tips of her ears turned red. "Then I imagine you'll want to eat before you g--"  
  
His temper got the best of him. "Don't tell me again that I'm leaving, Phoebe. That's my choice."  
  
She managed a too-sweet smile before she turned and left the room. "At least until after breakfast." 


End file.
